


I Hope You'll Feed Me

by discountghost



Series: A Little Party Never Killed Nobody [1]
Category: ATEEZ (Band), K-pop
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Blowjobs, Fingerfucking, Goth!Hwa, Hwa as a Punk Rocker, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-28 18:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20783300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discountghost/pseuds/discountghost
Summary: Sometimes we find religion in strange places.Sometimes, it finds you.Title taken from Meg Myers' Desire





	I Hope You'll Feed Me

**Author's Note:**

> More spooks from yours truly.

The first time Seonghwa sees the two of them, they’re at the back of the club. They have to be lost. It’s the only assumption he can make with how they’re dressed. Bright colors in a black sea. He can barely see it but it looks like one of them is close to tears, the other huddled close to him. It’s not so much that he looks away so much as his view is blocked. Yunho moves into focus, towering over the two boys. His back is to Seonghwa, but he can practically feel the warmth from his smile from by the stage.

“On in six.”

His cue. The others are already ambling up the steps to the stage. Maybe they came for a different set; they weren’t the only band on the bill tonight and they were a mash of different genres. Whatever the case, he felt whatever brewing fixation he had with the brightly colored pair disappear as he stepped on stage. Boots thudding against finished wood, chipped and scuffed from the acts that came before. It isn’t his first rodeo; they’d been at this club a dozen times. Regulars, the crowd would say. Money makers, the owner states. A band with potential.

Even as their drummer does an experimental tap of his sticks, crowd hushed, he can see them. Yunho, in a sense, is a regular. Easy to spot in the crowd because of how tall he is. But they’re easier to see past the stage lights. Whatever Yunho had said, he’d managed to coax them to stay for the show, going so far as getting them closer to the front. The crying one seems most unsure of the whole thing, glancing around at the admittedly intimidating audience. The other one - smaller than the first and entirely dwarfed by the giant that is Yunho - looks intrigued. 

The first chord is struck and he forgets them again. They need no preamble, no introduction. They stopped giving those after the first couple of shows. He can feel the energy vibrating through the crowd, like a special frequency just for his ears.   
  


He’s sweating; hair sticking to his skin wherever it can reach. The leather of his jacket feels slippery against his skin, the harness a little tighter than before. His whole frame buzzes with the high of his own voice, the crowd; the after performance cooldown is going to be shit. The pair he’d spotted before had been in his direct line of sight for the majority of the performance. Surprising, considering he’d thought they’d bolt at one point. Now, without the raised vantage point of the stage, he loses them. So he searches for Yunho instead.

The very tall regular has ushered his two new companions over to a secluded corner and now Seonghwa can get a better look at them. One of them, with hair that looks close to the color of cotton candy, is wearing platform shoes. They’re the first thing he notices because somehow he still looks smaller than his friend. They’re pink with what he realizes is a holographic effect when the light hits them a certain way. He’s talking animatedly, big eyes made bigger by his excitement. His lips are glossed, stretched into an easy smile as he pauses, listening to something Yunho is saying. Seonghwa would want to say that he isn’t particularly drawn to the way his obnoxiously matching shorts hug his thighs but he is. 

The other one, the blonde, moves and the jacket he’s wearing shifts colors. He’s not crying, a dimple on full display as his friend speaks. They’re wearing matching turtlenecks, pastel stripes across them. Who wears matching turtlenecks? They do, apparently. This one has taken it a step further - maybe. He can’t be sure if it’s a skirt or shorts, but his attention is mostly on the white fishnet.

They’re out of place - impossibly so - but they don’t seem as uncomfortable as they were before. Perhaps Yunho was doing what he did best; it would seem that way. Seonghwa’s pulled away by his bandmates, a glass passed to him as they celebrate another show well done. He thinks he stops thinking about the pair.

\----

They’re lost again. Or maybe now they’re not. Either way, Seonghwa is still surprised to see them. They’re back in all their pastel holographic glory; soft and cheery compared to the dreary crowd. Seonghwa asks for the playbill for the night and then he sees it. Or he assumes this is the band they’re here for.  _ Prism _ . It’s a simple enough name, but it gives away a bit of what they must brand themselves as.

He breathes out a sigh - relief? - and sits back. They’ve already performed and there’s still that buzz of trapped energy that he doesn’t know what to do with. His fingers tingle. There’s an itch to do something so he watches the pair. He can’t tell how long they’ve been there this time, but Yunho is back to talking them up. They’re still too far off from him to really hear what they’re saying, but they’re animated. Happy. Yunho makes that easy.

“They’re back again?” It’s Yeosang at his ear. Another regular; it’d be strange if he wasn’t considering how long they’d been friends. “How many times can you get lost at the same place?” He was here the first time they came, but never actually saw. Maybe because he’d been too busy sucking face with Wooyoung.

“I guess.” Nonchalant, like he hasn’t been staring at them for the last ten minutes. Yeosang must be seeing through it because he clicks his tongue and ambles over to them, glances over his shoulder as he goes.

Seonghwa doesn’t join them, just watches over the rim of his glass.

\---

Now he  _ knows _ they’re not lost. It’s the fifth time he’s seen them and they’re still not meshing with the crowd, but he knows who they’re here for now. It’s kind of hard  _ not _ to know, when they’ve got it slapped all over them. They look more like a couple of groupies for a pop band than a punk rock headliner. That’s definitely not what his band is, but they feel like it with the reception the crowd gives them. It’s the buzz he feels when  _ they _ scream that really makes him feel it and he knows they are, because it sounds so different.

It’s the angry, enabled cheer of the crowd that he’s used to. Theirs is an adoring, hungry kind of scream that might as well be a shriek. It makes something in the pit of his stomach coil, seeing them not quite in the front of the crowd with his name all over their clothes. He can see bits of it on the chokers around their necks - along with very pointed pet names beside them. Seonghwa might hit a particular note a little higher than usual just to hear them scream in kind.

They look drunk off it. Neon and cherry sweet, eyes glassy.  _ He _ could get drunk off of the sight of them. But then their set is done and he’s breathing heavy and the crowd is still cheering - but he can hear them loud and clear.

The pair’s screams ring in his ears as he descends the steps, limbs numb and head knocking the crystal clear notes of their voices around on a loop. They’re more intoxicating than the drink that’s passed to him, strong and burning as it goes down. When he finds them again, they’re not screaming but they look wasted. Absolutely. They hadn’t seemed that way the first couple of times he’d seen them. But maybe it’s because they’re more comfortable now. He figures that’s what it is. A few drinks too many. Maybe before the show started. Pregaming wasn’t unusual; he’d seen plenty of people do it before.

There’s a lot that he’s seen. He reminds himself of that as the blonde pulls the other in close with a needy whine - for once he’s close enough to hear but obscured enough to just watch without being noticed - for a sloppy kiss. He’s not sure if the whistling he hears is real or imagined as the red haired one happily accepts. They’re pressed close like they want to crawl into one another, hips grinding together as little mewls and sighs leave the pair. And then one breaks away from the other for a breath and locks eyes with Seonghwa.

There it is again, that roll of his stomach. Insides twisting up with something he doesn’t want to call nerves. He knows exactly what it is sitting low in his stomach, waiting for him to get on with it. But he doesn’t. Instead, he takes another sip of his drink as he stares on. The red head’s lips part around a moan, the note so sweet and drawn out he half thinks it’s just for him. The blonde has latched on to exposed throat, hands cupping just so on the other’s thighs in - yet again - neon shorts. His fingers trace over Seonghwa’s name and he, too, is looking the singer’s way.

He falters. Not quite choking on his drink, but certainly not as steady as he was before. Eager, hungry. There’s something to both their gazes as the redhead pulls the other back up to lock lips again. It’s a show. For him, he realizes. Maybe belatedly. Because now they’re moving towards the exit. They don’t bother with speaking to Yunho like they usually do, hands on each other’s hips and faces close. So close he isn’t sure they ever really stopped kissing.

A hand slaps on his shoulder and he shakes from the trance he’s been stuck in.

\-----

It’s hours later, when he’s up at 3 am and replaying the show, that his hips stutter and he’s coming into his hand at the image the pair staring him down. His chest heaves, phantom images of them kissing along his jaw. Tracing his name on each other’s skin lazily. He wonders if they taste as sweet as they look, and figures that’s a stupid thing to think because they probably do. 

Strawberries and cream. He can’t look at it the same now that the image is in his head, watching the two of them drunkenly kiss on repeat until he’s coming again. He had intended to make use of this time writing lyrics, but he’d found that he could only wax poetic about the odd duo that showed up to all his shows. Which lead to his hand on his cock, more interested in painting a very vivid of the two open mouthed at his feet with his cum.

\----

He’s made it a point now to speak to them. Their interaction has been limited to stares across a crowd and him watching them with a growing interest. Senghwa figures it’s only right, considering there’s been a week of him jacking off to them since the last time he’s laid eyes on the neon pair. He wants to say that he’s running out of material to jerk it to, but his imagination has always been an active thing.

They’re at their usual spot. The set is over and he’s still buzzing with adrenaline - so why not? It’s easy to slip through the crowd towards them, two bodies using each other for support as Yunho regales them with some sort of story. He loses interest in whatever it is - not that whatever is being told is boring; Yunho has never been that - but there’s the two that have been haunting him from the first time he’d seen them.

When they realize he’s there, it’s a complete shift. They go from giggly, attentive listeners to silent, awestruck - and something else. The blonde looks close to crying again, leaning into the redhead. They swallow whatever comment they were going to make and Seonghwa can’t help but watch the way the bells on their chokers move, but don’t ring. How much would it need to move to make a sound?

Seonghwa thanks whatever deity exists above that has made them forgo shorts, but curses them at the same time as he takes in the massive rips in their jeans. Enough to display multi colored fishnets underneath. His wandering eyes go unnoticed as Yunho introduces them, the pair silent. San and Hongjoong, Hongjoong and San. They nod their greeting, but he’s more focused on the way their mouths move around nothing - a comment, a compliment,  _ something _ that comes out as nothing.

“Strawberry and sweet cream.” They blink, not picking up on what he means. He points to their heads, the lights distorting the color of them slightly. “Strawberry.” Hongjoong. “Sweet cream.” San.

San is clutching onto Hongjoong as if his life depends on it, a nervous giggle fluttering out. It’s sweet and he hides his face partly in Hongjoong’s hair. As if he hadn’t kissed the other silly just last week while Seonghwa watched. Hongjoong laughs as well, and pulls the other to bow deep. Seonghwa notes absently that at that angle, he can see down their shirts. It looks like nothing but smooth skin and then it’s gone as they stand upright.

“I - we’re - really big fans.” He more so watches the way Hongjoong’s lips move around the words than hears the words themselves, gaze drifting back up the other’s eyes.

“The biggest.” San says it with confidence that doesn’t match the way he’s hiding, but his expression is coy. A game; another show. “Getting lost was the best thing to ever happen.”

So they had been lost. Seonghwa’s brows rose. “Was it now? I’m glad I could make it worth your while.” He smiles and he swears they swoon on the spot. Yunho says something about getting a drink, nudging his side, but he nods and gives a sound of affirmation without looking at the taller.

It’s relatively silent - they’re in a packed club;it’s never silent - as the pair takes the chance to step forward. They’re close in space, the closest they’d been yet. They occupy his attention with little effort, gaze darting from one movement to the next. San’s grip loosens on Hongjoong as he speaks. “Your lyrics. They’re so - so  _ powerful _ . And your voice.” His own voice cracks around the word in a what can be described as a groan and there’s that familiar snake sitting in the pit of his stomach again. “It’s  _ amazing _ .” The man sounds completely starstruck.

There’s a pink blush settled high on his cheeks, and Seonghwa isn’t sure if it’s meant to match his makeup or if it’s from one drink too many or something else. He doesn’t care; it’s a pretty sight that he wants burned into his memory. Fingers are on his wrist, tentative. Hongjoong’s digits are dainty, lithe. “Your performances are just - no words. I don’t know how you do it. But we love it.” 

A beat passes with these compliments lingered, and more still being pulled out of them as they draw closer to Seonghwa. He could excuse it as the crowd of the club pressing in closer, but he doesn’t care enough to  _ find _ an excuse. He finds he rather likes the way they slot themselves against either side of him, guiding his hands to rest on their hips. 

They’re as soft as he imagined. Skin smooth beneath his touch, and his fingers explore with ease. They invite him for more, Hongjoong shifting his weight to direct the course of his hands. San’s breath is on his skin, hot and he swears it smells like vanilla or something sweet like that. He doesn’t notice Yunho dropping his glass on the bar beside him, shooting him a look that is probably filthier than the situation he thinks this is all leading to before walking off.

“How about you see where the magic is made?” The proposal has left his mouth before he can even think about it and they look ecstatic. Eager animals. He would say panther but they’re too bright for that. But they resemble them enough; he swears there’s a glow to their eyes when the last word has left his lips. Smiles curl onto their faces as their fingers curl into his clothes and the near manic look might be forgiven by the way the light shines over them, haze of neon colors reflecting off their features.

“We’d be delighted.”

\----

He isn’t nervous. That’s not how Seonghwa rolls. He smooths his clammy palms down his pants, grimacing when he remembers leather doesn’t do well with moisture. He’s done this before, too, shown excited groupies his studio. It’s nothing particularly special; just a rented room in a building like any other. But his pulse thrums harder and faster than the guitar on the last track he’d worked on. Seonghwa had sent the band out about five minutes ago, cleaned up the trash they’d left behind - which isn’t much with how insistent he is on them keeping it clean. It makes things easier for the person that has to go around cleaning up after them.

He rolls up the last bag of chips and tosses it in a bin as there’s a knock on the door and his heart kicks up the tempo.  _ God, _ he shouldn’t be this nervous. But they make him nervous. After the way they’d circled him like predators. He shouldn’t have given them that invitation, but there was the nagging voice in his head that wanted to know how sweet their voices sounded outside of the club. If they were the same outside of the pounding, dingy walls.

Hongjoong pokes his head in first when he opens the door. His red hair is parted to the side, putting an array of earrings on display. They dangle down, caressing his neck when he turns his head and smiles up at Seonghwa, stepping inside to make way for San. The other has a similar part going on, and they’re still doing that twin thing with their outfits. It’s cute. But in this case, it’s also a great detriment to him not looking like he has a hidden agenda.

Fishnets - they like that a lot - peek out from over the waistband of their bottoms. San in shorts that accent his legs, and Hongjoong in a skirt. Both are short enough that he has to wonder about how they walked up the steps without someone sneaking a peek. With both of them inside, he shuts the door and turns back as they discard their jackets on the couch. It’s San’s arms that catch his attention first, watching the way the muscles move under skin. Sleeveless crop tops should have been something he expected of the two. The other catches him and grins; he’s not as shy as he had been before.

“And this-” Seonghwa spreads his arms out, turning away quickly to save some face “is where the magic happens.” The wheel of his chair squeaks as Hongjoong plops down in it. It looks bigger with the smaller man wriggling about to get comfortable in it. 

It’s a modest set up. A computer for mixing that he doesn’t use; that’s someone else’s job. His notebooks, because he refuses to write lyrics anywhere else, are scattered on the open space of the desk. Speakers take up one part of the room and the mics have been moved to accompany them. It’s nothing special, but it’s  _ his _ and something he earned with his own money. 

They seem interested, though. Hongjoong kicks his legs out to force the chair closer to the desk, to get to the computer. San is more preoccupied with flipping through his notebooks. He comes up behind them, one hand on the chair and the other floating into space, not sure where he wants to put it. San has to notice this nervous energy because he backs up enough that his hand bumps against the small of his back. He can just barely feel skin through the material of the fishnets, forefinger settling on the waistband. 

“So you  _ do _ write your own lyrics.” “Who mixes for you? Do you compose yourself?”

The questions come flooding out, and he answers with ease. He thought - not about much because he didn’t really care so long as they got in his space - that they wouldn’t be quite so interested in the music. The ease at which  _ they _ had jumped onto the bandwagon of his music made him think that they were more in it to say they got with a singer in a band. Actual interest felt more like a bonus.

Hongjoong proved himself knowledgeable in the area of composition. Going so far as to comment on a possible piece in progress. It was good to have fresh eyes, and not the same tired ones that spent late nights tweaking the same thing over and over again. San’s voice floats over them as he tries out chords and notes for Seonghwa. It’s perfect and haunting, sticking in the back of his mind on repeat. He makes a note to possibly record him later on.

They spend near two hours like this. Somewhere in that time, Hongjoong has made way for him to sit in his chair, taking residence in his lap. The chair dips back with San leaning on it, fingers ghosting at his hair. It’s a comfortable set up that takes a turn when Seonghwa looks down and Hongjoong looks up through lashes and San hits a particularly suggestive note that sounds an awful lot like a moan. 

Seonghwa’s reminded of the pressure of Hongjoong dangerously close to his crotch. They’re doing good so far as they are; he doesn’t want to ruin it, so he says something to fill the air. “You know. I thought you two were incredibly brave.”

“Oh?” Hongjoong looks surprised, where only a moment prior he looked disappointed. “Why?”

“The way you dress. It’s - it’s not any more extreme than the way I do, but people take it differently.” He pauses, lets his tongue slide over his lip while he thinks through his scattered thoughts. “But you have no problem going out like you do. And I think that’s brave.”

San coos. “That’s so sweet.” His fingers thread through Seonghwa’s hair, tugging lightly before lingering at the back of his head. It tingles where he’d been touched and he finds that thinking properly is becoming harder as Hongjoong scoots in closer.

“Why this?” It feels like a loaded question, and Hongjoong’s eyes flutter innocuously. He knows what he’s doing. “Why music?”

He could give any number of answers. He could give the one he usually did, the one that deterred people to the degree he wanted: that he was bored. That he didn’t want to be a lawyer or a doctor or whatever else his parents might design for him to be. But there’s more to it than that; he likes the way the crowd looks when they’re fully immersed. Frenzied, hungry. Like the two had looked the first time they’d been up close. The angry cheering is fine, but loses its weight over time. There’s something else in a crazed look in and a shriek like bloody murder.

Admitting it, even to himself, makes his skin crawl. Because it shouldn’t be right. The way his mind filled in the blanks, the way he filled in gaps in the crowds with people dancing themselves to exhaustion. The way he sometimes mistakes a glass of jungle juice for blood-red wine knocking around in a glass until it spills over the lips slow and thick.

Seonghwa swallows, shrugs. Doesn’t give an answer. Or maybe it’s answer enough because the two are invading his space further until it’s just  _ them _ . “You could probably make crowds go crazy another way, you know. A runway suits you.”

“You’d look pretty on camera.”

“Even better in person.” 

They complete thought after thought as he slips further and further into their grasp. He’s not sure when, but San occupies his other leg now. They’re flush against him, lips at his neck as they make their suggestions. They trace the words into his skin, fingers drifting over him. In the back of his mind, something stirs. Shifts around from a deep sleep that he’s forgotten about at their coaxing.

His fingers dig into supple flesh, pulling them closer as they abandon speaking and trail kisses along his jaw. They meet at his chin and fall into a rhythm of familiarity under his hooded gaze. He feels heavy and light all at once, watching them kiss a moment longer before they separate. Glossed lips shine, curving up into smiles. Seonghwa’s not sure who he wants to taste first, so he brings them both to him into a sloppy uncoordinated kiss that leaves him feeling weighty and blissed out. He could go on for hours like that, with them curling up in his lap and fighting for more exposure. The cooperation they had before falls apart, and it’s soon a struggle to gain his full attention.

Teeth nick his bottom lip and he retaliates by moving one hand to grab at the curve of Hongjoong’s ass, the other hand slipping into San’s top and pulling him back slightly. The voices they let out is satisfying, sharp gasps dying on soft moans as they pull away from him to arch into his hands. Part of him has the sense to remember that he’d put on the recorder and it’s probably catching every sweet sound leaving their lips and he finds he doesn’t rightly care. He wonders what the playback is going to sound like, if it’ll do them justice.

The makeup he suspects they spent some time on is slowly falling apart. Glitter sticks to his skin where it rubbed off of theirs and a little rhinestone is missing from Hongjoong’s waterline. He swallows as San twines his fingers with his, guiding the hand further up to his nipple with a whine. Hongjoong twists in his hand, trying to get him closer to between his legs. They’re attacking his neck and he sinks deeper, thoughts clear but like he’s viewing them from underwater. 

They’re nipping at sensitive flesh, lapping up the bites as the door opens. If he was thinking coherently enough, he might have gone so far as to mentally berate himself. But the trio freezes, an amalgamation of limbs sticky with sweat and spit and it’s too warm but warm in the right way as one of his bandmates steps in. He doesn’t think much of the way the man pauses in the doorway, probably seeing the jackets on the couch. 

Hongjoong and San shared a look that Seonghwa might have missed if he didn’t catch the light in their eyes. A spectrum of colors danced over their irises, bright and glowing. And then a smile slid up Hongjoong’s face, hand moving up to cup San’s as he nodded. It was an awkward movement of their legs that pushed them to face the infuriating visitor.

San disentangles himself from the other two and crosses over to the door. Dae - he can’t really be bothered to be sure that it’s him; it could have been Minji for all he was paying attention - is about to say something when San closes the door behind him. There’s a moment where Dae is trying to come up with some sort of joke, but he’s quieted very easily by San.

Watching the other move was like watching a predator. The blonde was behind him, arms coiling around his neck. The muscle he’d admired before is put to work around a slim neck. Seonghwa watched as his face changed shades, from its usual pale color to near purple. He’s letting out the most pathetic whines and pleas until it dies down into sputtering and then silence. When San let him go he’d already passed out. 

“What is he doing?” He can’t find the concern that should be in his voice.

“Just watch.” Hongjoong plants a kiss on his chin.

And so he does. He watches as San drags Dae further into the studio. Still breathing, still alive; he’s mildly disappointed with that. Part of him is only a little alarmed at this. But it’s chased away as he watches - he’s still got his gaze locked on the way the flesh moves on his arm as he works - San quite literally rip Dae’s chest open. It’s a gruesome affair; fingers digging into flesh like fresh earth. Fingers ghost over his torso, and Seonghwa blinks down at Hongjoong’s small hands travel down his pants, working in tandem with San opening Dae up to open his fly. His hand - small around his cock - traces the angry vein as San opens up Dae’s chest. The man doesn’t stir and maybe that’s a good thing. His body shakes and moves as San gets to work prying up his ribs and he’s reminded of those old photos of dinners with a roast sitting in ribs. 

Blood coats San’s hands and trails down his forearms. He swipes a hand over his forehead, sweat and blood mixing into the glitter of his makeup. It’s horrifically beautiful. He kind of wishes he could take a picture of the moment. His smile when he looks up at the pair doesn’t match the scene before him, pretty teeth on display while he rummages around Dae’s chest. He’s not sure if the man is still alive but he finds it impressive that he could have died so quietly. Without whimper or bang.

Seonghwa hisses as Hongjoong leans down and spits on his cock, pumping his small hand around him. It’s a trip, watching a murder on one hand and getting a handjob on the other. The red head pauses as San rocks back on his heels, lifting one hand to beckon him forward. He’s swimming in a vat of thoughts - about how wrong this should be and how he shouldn’t be listening to that small voice that says it’s for him,  _ all for him _ .

He tries not to be too upset when Hongjoong climbs off his lap to join San, dipping hands in a pool of red. Whatever disturbance he had with the scene before is lost, mesmerized as they cup their hands together and let blood slip through their fingers. And they raise them up up up to their lips and drink in deep, eyes fluttering shut. Some of it spills past their lips, running down their chins to their throats and when Hongjoong moves to clean San up, he does less good than bad and smears it over the other’s skin. They’re pretty and atrocious all at once and it’s oddly familiar.

Like he’d seen it a dozen times years ago, pushed back in some distant memory he can’t recall. They turn to look at him, and San cups another handful of blood. Slurps it up without breaking eye contact; Seonghwa had to say he liked this new confidence. Then the pair are back to him, eyes glowing.

“This is our offering to you,” Hongjoong whispers in his ears as San presses a kiss to his lips.

He readily accepts. Opening his mouth some, warm liquid is pushed into it. They’re careful not to touch him with their hands, but they can’t stop the blood on their lips, chins, throats from rubbing off on where they meet his skin. His fingers slide through silky hair as he holds San in place, drinking in all that he has to offer until there is nothing left. Lips red and swollen, San pulls back to let loose a soft whine and Hongjoong takes his place.

Orchestrating the move from the chair to the floor is immensely easier than he thought it would be. The two lay themselves down side by side, stripping as they go. Seonghwa isn’t sure how many times already he’s thought this, but they’re beautiful. Covered in nothing but glitter and blood, they resemble neon angels. Or maybe demons, in this case. They huddle in close as he leans down, planting a kiss on each of their lips while one hand wraps around Hongjoong’s weeping cock. The man responds pleasantly, a soft note swallowed up by San and watches them for a moment. Without needing to say a word, San has angled himself to allow Hongjoong to slip his fingers between the man’s cheeks, teasing at the ring of muscle until one finger slides in, coated with blood and what looks like lube. For having his eyes on them the whole time, he wonders when they had time to pull that out, the bottle sitting in a pool of congealing blood. 

A litany of moans fills the room while he reaches for it. Hongjoong whines when Seonghwa’s hands stop their ministrations, but it’s soon replaced with a pleased sound as San’s hand takes up the task. The vantage point he has is sinful. He’s slow, nonchalant about the way he uncaps the lube. San cranes his neck to see and Hongjoong tilts his head to do the same. The hungry look hasn’t left their eyes, accompanied by a blush high in their cheeks and parted lips. 

He warms the lube up in his hands - he notes that it’s strawberry and cream scented and it hits him strong now that he realizes - before looking back to them. “Over him.” San gets the message, quick to the draw as he straddles Hongjoong. Bracing his hands on either side of the other, he plants a kiss too soft to match the situation on the other’s lips. “Spread him.” 

San groans as Hongjoong’s fingers slip out of him in favor of spread him apart for Seonghwa. The blonde arches his back, not yet distracted from kissing the other beneath hm breathless. He doesn’t have to go as slow as he does, but he much prefers to watch the way the muscles in San’s thighs clench as he slides one finger in slow and easy. The moan it gets is piteous and drawn out against Hongjoong’s lips and he’s impressed it’s loud enough that he can hear it so clearly.

He catches Hongjoong off guard, finger teasing the puckered pink hole as the man jerks upwards. San is low enough that his dick rubs up against Hongjoong as his hips jump, in time with Seonghwa’s finger finally hitting him knuckle deep. They let out a cry in unison - it’s going to sound so good on that recording, he  _ knows _ it. Seonghwa slips in another finger and San sighs, “So much better than hyung’s fingers.” 

Seonghwa’s dick throbs, achingly hard and now his mind is conjuring images of them fingering each other - and everything else he’s sure they must do. Hongjoong’s lips curve down into a slight pout, but his retort is choked by Seonghwa scissoring his fingers. Both of them suck in a breath through their teeth, San’s head dropping to rest on Hongjoong’s shoulders.

It goes for however long it goes, Seonghwa fascinated by the way they arch to meet each other in the middle, San’s legs and arms trembling when he adds another finger. The way Hongjoong squeezes his eyes shut and presses his fingers harder into San’s hips as Seonghwa brushes over the bundle of nerves he’s been searching for. Until Hongjoong whines, low in his throat, “My God,  _ please _ .” There isn’t anything attached to it, broken off as his fingers hit his prostate again, but he knows what he’s asking for.

“San, sweetie.” The man takes a moment to raise his head, brows furrowed as if he can hardly concentrate with the three fingers in him. His mouth falls open on a pant, response lost in it. A pretty noise leaves him, wanting and disappointed as Seonghwa’s slip out of him. “Why don’t you fuck Hongjoong for me?” The message is conveyed and San is eager — so eager it makes his cock ache. Maybe he shouldn’t beat around the bush, but he wants to see how far they’ll go — as he rearranges himself. Lines up with Hongjoong’s clenching hole to replace the fingers Hwa has just pulled out of him. They share another look before San thrusts in, Hongjoong moaning against his neck as he’s filled up.

San hips roll slow, teasing. Like it’s more of a show for Seonghwa than anything else. Shallow breaths and pants leave the pair as San gives a few more thrusts before Hwa decides that he has had enough. Hongjoong’s fingers leave streaks of red where they trail on San’s skin. He links his own with the smaller man’s, cockhead just at San’s hole.

He watches on the pair reacts, San clenching around him and leaning his weight onto Hongjoong. The clench of muscle around his cock is sweet and feels like he’s being sucked. Invited in to explore more. He seats himself deep in San and stills, watching still. The glitter on their skin catches the light at every angle, making them all the more dazzling. Sweat slick skin with hair clinging to foreheads; quivering limbs as they struggled to hold on. Drool slid down San’s chin, mixing with remnants of blood that were beginning to dry there.

The pool of crimson had come dangerously close, congealing further now. Hwa might have grimaced if he cared about the carpet, about what all the staining would remind him of every time he looked at it. Dae stares up at him, unseeing. He tilts his head to the side, and wonders if his ghost is enjoying the show.

His attention is brought back to the duo as San rocks his hips to fuck himself back on Hwa’s dick, and then into Hongjoong with needy, high whines. Almost like the ones he heard in the club, but better because he was the cause of them. He feels the corners of his lips lift up. He gives a lazy roll of his hips before almost entirely pulling out and then snapping his hips forward to meet the curve of San’s ass.

The man beneath him nearly collapses on Hongjoong. His legs tremble as his arms give out — the same arms that had ripped a person open with little effort — and Seonghwa gives another particularly cruel thrust to watch them writhe beneath him. San is less focused now on his previous task of fucking Hongjoong. He’s slipped out of the other man, cocks rubbing against thighs. Clicking his tongue, he pulls out entirely and San clenches around nothing.

“That’s no good; I thought I told you to do something, Sannie.”

The other simply whines, face buried in the crook of Hongjoong’s neck and hips tipped upward. Hongjoong’s eyes are glazed over, jaw slack at he stares up at Hwa. His fingers still loop with the dark haired man’s own on San’s hips.

“That’s not nice at all, Sannie.” There’s an edge to his voice and he watches as the other visibly shudder. “How is Hongjoong supposed to feel good?”

Hongjoong squirms when his name is spoken, cock red and leaking where it rubs against San’s thigh. Seonghwa uses one hand to shift San over until Hongjoong is on top and doesn’t need to be told before he’s fitting himself like a puzzle piece in San. The youngest of the trio’s head thumps back against the floor as Hongjoong thrusts into him. The pace is fast and merciless and the blonde’s voice raises with each thrust. But it isn’t Hongjoong’s name he’s calling.

It’s not any language that Hwa  _ thinks _ he knows, but he  _ knows _ . He can distinguish what he means even without really knowing what the language is and it puts a smile on his face just as San comes, spilling over his own stomach. His chest heaves as Hongjoong slows, but only slightly. 

Hongjoong locks eyes with Seonghwa as his hips stutter, and he too moans out a name. Seonghwa’s name — his other name; one he hasn’t heard in a long time — is all he hears as the two before him are covered in each other’s cum. Hongjoong’s spilling out of San as San’s rubs against Hongjoong’s stomach as he leans in for a kiss.

When Seonghwa clears his throat, they pull apart. Still connected by tendrils of spit hanging between them. Again, he is struck with the etherealness of the pair as they smile up at him. Not quite sated. Hongjoong licks his lips — he follows the way the other’s tongue trails over his top lip lazily — as San rolls onto his forearms and lifts himself up. They crowd around him, or more accurately — his dick. They press a kiss onto the tip, smearing precome spit over their lips.

Not unlike how Hwa and Hongjoong had linked fingers before, the two do around his cock. There’s a name for what they are. He thinks of it now as sweat and glitter and blood cling to them. Hongjoong has dipped his hands back in the drying blood on the carpet, slathering it over his cock and he’d be damned if he wasn’t the least bit turned on more by it. But — what even  _ is _ in a name? A whole lot; they whisper it against his skin, the vibrations coursing through him. He wants so much to push the tip past Hongjoong’s lips and watch them spread.

Nymph is a good word for them. Nymphs are what he thinks they are, but they’re more than that as they continue their ministrations. He winds his hands through their hair as they pump him in a steady rhythm, and there that snakes comes in the pit of his stomach. Coiling around itself as he watches them. They glance up at him and smile as his orgasm takes him by surprise. Maybe it’s the picture they make for — maenads at play. 

He sucks in a breath as Hongjoong uses a finger to collect some of his cum and push it into San’s mouth. The younger sucks on it eagerly, swallows it without hesitation before pulling in the other to taste what’s left on his tongue. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he can hear them screaming again. Loud and clear over a raging audience, shouting his name again. 

“Oh.”

The pair is expectant, smiles wide when he looks at them.

“Do you remember now?” San’s voice rises just an octave; hopeful. Hongjoong’s expression matches it.

There’s a gleam in their eyes, like the ones he’d seen before. A prism of color reflected in them that can’t be natural. Isn’t. It’s not the light he can blame it on, and he doesn’t feel the need to. Not when they look so lovely, waiting for him. 

“It’s good to be back.”

**Author's Note:**

> happy cawlloween! I hope you enjoyed reading!
> 
> [yell at me on twt](https://twitter.com/discountghosts) | [drop me some spooky suggestions or sth idc](https://curiouscat.me/remeremerem)


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